


(5. Build) / Art is in the eye of the beholder

by Mothfluff



Series: GO-ctober Prompts 2019 [5]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett, Ineffable husbands - Fandom
Genre: Fluff, Gen, M/M, October Prompt Challenge, One Word Prompts, as usual
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-05
Updated: 2019-10-05
Packaged: 2020-11-24 13:55:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,533
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20908754
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mothfluff/pseuds/Mothfluff
Summary: My attempts at an October Challenge, basically using the original Inktober prompts for drabbles.(Each prompt will be posted as part of a series, not chapters, so I can add tags/characters/ratings/trigger warnings for each instead of the whole she-bang)Prompt 5 - BuildHe’d stopped sharing his creations with Aziraphale at some point – when exactly, he couldn’t remember. It had all become a bit icky, seeing the angel stare lovingly at a statue that maybe had just a bit too much fluff in its golden curls, or smile at the soft curves of a pencil study that would’ve turned into a full painting if the angel had only sat still for a little while longer, or stroke reverently over dark satin and linens and comment on how lovely it would look on Crowley when the job from Downstairs called for a more feminine tempter again. It was a sweet mixture of joy and pain, seeing Aziraphale so enamored with his creations. It was not something he could stand for too long without the pain overtaking, unfortunately. He couldn’t imagine how it would feel to see him reading one of his poems. He didn’t dare.





	(5. Build) / Art is in the eye of the beholder

**Author's Note:**

> Build - Create - it’s all relative, isn’t it? I gotta find some wriggle room for these prompts from time to time, right?

Demons were not creators.

They were destroyers, that was more their style, raging destruction and disaster in the world. Not making things, inventing, breathing life into newfound creations. That was angel work. (Or it had been, back when things were being created, six thousand years ago and before. By now, even Upstairs was not really involved with anything close to ‘creation’ anymore, but at least closer to it than demons were.)

Nevertheless, Demons did not create.

Then again, Crowley had never given much of a shit about what demons did or did not supposedly do.

Crowley was good at creating. It might hint back to his former profession, of which he’d told Aziraphale only once or twice, under the influence of far more alcohol than a human would’ve been able to digest, but was barely enough to let a demon who’d spent the past few millenia closing up and hiding finally open up just a little.

Most of all, though, it spoke of his intense imagination (yet another very un-demonic thing, to be honest, but again – Crowley didn’t care. As stated before).

He’d created an awful lot of things over the many centuries. Even at the beginning of it all, he’d snuck the strangest looking creatures into the garden when the guardians didn’t look his way – Aziraphale would stumble over them while taking his tours, and look at the little things shuffling about, something always a bit off about their markings or their eyes or the way they moved, but beautiful and fascinating nonetheless. Six thousand years later, and he was still trying to figure out which were just from some poor angel having a bad day, and which were from Crowley.

“The platypus, really? That one’s almost a bit too on the nose, don’t you think?

“Yeah, I admit, that was mostly stuck together from random parts I had left. You know, nose and tail and webbed feet and some fur. Turned out pretty funny though, didn’t it?”

“I suppose. Poor thing.”

“Hey, I gave it venom at least. That counts for something, right?”

He’d spent the early years of humanity’s growth learning their various crafts, turning his imagination towards everything and anything that meant creating new things. From stone to clay to metal to fabric to paint to gemstones, there was nothing he couldn’t make _something_ out of. When the Renaissance finally came around, Aziraphale saw the demon happier than he’d ever seen him before. He turned his attention to everything at once – in true Renaissance fashion – and Aziraphale’s lodgings were filled with sculptures and paintings almost as much as any of the palazzos they found themselves in as guests. When Aziraphale’s own guests became too interested, Crowley’s name close to becoming famous (not exactly a thing he’d get a commendation from Downstairs for, both of them suspected), the demon turned his imagination towards the more supporting role of a muse.

“You can’t give him _that_! Humans aren’t supposed to invent these things for at least another- where did you get these plans from anyway?! Did you steal them?”  
“Oh come off it – he’s not gonna be able to build any of it properly anyway – I just wanna see what he’ll do with it. The guy’s bloody brilliant!”  
“Can’t you stick to being a bad influence with his art, instead? Or his social life? Do you have to give him- do the humans really need more war machines?”

“He’s already better than me at painting _and _sculpting. How much more do you want? And he’s got the strange private life done all on his own, that wasn’t my doing. C'mon, angel. Don’t you wanna see a helicopter crash at least once, before they do them right in a few hundred years?”

He’d stopped sharing his creations with Aziraphale at some point – when exactly, he couldn’t remember. It had all become a bit icky, seeing the angel stare lovingly at a statue that maybe had just a bit too much fluff in its golden curls, or smile at the soft curves of a pencil study that would’ve turned into a full painting if the angel had only sat still for a little while longer, or stroke reverently over dark satin and linens and comment on how lovely it would look on Crowley when the job from Downstairs called for a more feminine tempter again. It was a sweet mixture of joy and pain, seeing Aziraphale so enamored with his creations. It was not something he could stand for too long without the pain overtaking, unfortunately. He couldn’t imagine how it would feel to see him reading one of his poems. He didn’t dare.

“Really, Crowley, you just _have_ to give this one a try. The boy is nothing but brilliant. Oh, the stories he can think of-”

“Thanks, but no thanks. You know I don’t do the whole book thing, that’s yours. I don’t _read_.”

“Ah but that’s the brilliant part! It’s a play! And I was wondering- I mean, that is- next friday is the premiere, and dear Oscar has given me tickets, but I wouldn’t know who- he was very insistent I come-”

“Oh please, like he’s expecting you to come with someone, you know damn well he’s just trying to get into your-”

“Crowley!”

“Fine. Alright. One play, if only to keep you from succumbing to his temptations. That’d be something now, wouldn’t it? Thousands of years working with a demon, and you fall for some human making pretty eyes at you.”

Nowadays, in the calm times after Armageddon’t, he’d turned towards smaller creations. The garden of their cottage was filled to the brim with his ideas quickly turned into reality, from raised vegetable beds housing plants that shouldn’t be able to withstand English weather to a shed that was far bigger on the inside to a proper little picnic area complete with stone-encircled campfire that never seemed to burn out. The flowerbeds were a work of art, and so was the conservatory. While Aziraphale had finally found his own interest in creations in the kitchen, Crowley had turned their garden into his very own Eden again (safe for the weird little creatures he’d made back then, as he didn’t think it would look to good on the protocol of either Heaven or Hell if some new animal showed up in the north of England of all places). And this time, no one would be banished from it (as long as they behaved).

“Adam called to say he might drop by for a visit next weekend with the rest of his friends. Apparently school will be out by then.”

“At least he’s giving us a warning beforehand this time.”

“He said you were expecting him. That you were planning something in the garden?”  
“Oh damn, right. Didn’t think he’d remember that. We were talking about putting up a treehouse, cause his parents won’t let him have one. They think he’ll try to sleep up there, or cause some kind of trouble with the other kids. Wouldn’t put it past him, to be honest.”

“A treehouse? Where would you put a treehouse here?”

“The tree back at the wall should be sturdy enough to hold it, with a bit of occult help.”

“Really, Crowley. You’re really building a fort for the Anti-Christ in an _apple tree_?”

It took a while, and a lot of courage, to share his creations again. Aziraphale had ooh-ed and aah-ed over anything new popping up in the garden, and spent a considerably long time reading between the flowers in the conservatory instead of his library, but Crowley still wasn’t sure if he should let him see the new sketches he’d begun. Show him the warm tones of a study of hands, holding a book like a relict. The lines of a soft body hidden under even softer sheets, the precise colouring of the light dancing over porcelain skin and golden hair. None if it was as beautiful as the smile on the angel’s lips, though, as he carefully leafed through the pages of the small sketchbook he’d found on Crowley’s nightstand, opened only after asking for permission. Crowley was glad he’d been to groggy from waking up, too distracted by the joy of warmth and scent and sight of his angel next to him in bed, to say no.

“Oh my dear, these are wonderful. Just wonderful.”

“S'just sketches.”

“I really missed your art. Do you remember those little figurines you made back in Spain? And that shawl you gave me for the dauphin’s ball, oh my heart, I have it somewhere in the back of the closet. Do you still have your drawings? I must’ve kept some sketches-”

“Got some leftovers. Back with the stuff from Leonardo. I think. If you wanna see them.”

“I do. We could frame some of them, put them in the study.”

“Don’t think we should frame the new ones, though. For the bedroom, maybe.”

“They’re not- I see what you mean, but it’s not really too erotic, isn’t it- more romantic, I know you don’t like that word, but really, the way you’ve drawn these-”

“Angel.”

“Yes?”

“Would you-

Would you like to read one of my poems?”


End file.
